


You're Not Alone

by MistressofMisfortune



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: But if I get the confidence to continue I will, But it's for a reason!, Dark fic!, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Drugging, F/F, Female Reader, First Person, Gift for the AMAZING Spiderbites, Going to continue this, I don't know how to tag him, I've tagged it as rape, If you don't like the tags, Kidnapping, Lesbian Character, Muaha, None happens at the start, One Shot, Or Is It?, POV First Person, POV reader, Rape/Non-con Elements, Second Person, Simple as, Spiderbites, Stalking, They need to write more dark stuff, They're awesome!, Through you!, Tinder, Wanda is not nice, Wanda is not nice in this, Wanda wants Stark to suffer, You're Tony Stark's kid, date, don't read!, first fic, he's not nice, lol, plz, seriously, she wants revenge
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-09-17 21:00:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16981713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressofMisfortune/pseuds/MistressofMisfortune
Summary: Even though you want nothing to do with your dad, Tony Stark; Wanda wants everything to do with you.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SpiderBites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpiderBites/gifts).



> Please do not read this if ANY of the tags trigger you because I will not respond and if I do, I will repeat this message! DARK FIC, Wanda Maximoff is NOT nice in this!!!!! It is a fictional piece of work that I have wanted to write for ages and I finally got to the point of wanting to post it. It's creative fiction. I don't condone any of this in real life, at all.
> 
> HUGE shoutout to SpiderBites, who's work I am obsessed with. Don't think we have ever spoken but I have gifted this wonderful trashy work to you because you're my idol. If it wasn't for your works, I'd have never posted this. Seriously, go check them out. They're fucking AMAZING!!!!!
> 
> I know there are typos and the tenses get mixed up but it's my first fic ---- go soft on me? Plz. Also if SpiderBites reads this and comments I will die from happiness!!

As soon as you wake up, you want to run. Your body craves the endorphins, craves the early morning breeze when little to no one is awake. You love that time of day. Jogging silently down your peaceful street, wearing the tank top you slept in with little to no care. It’ll be thrown straight into the wash once you’re finished. Most of the houses you pass are still in darkness. The occasional light flickers on behind a still - drawn curtains or blinds. It is possible that no one at all will see you go by. It’s the way you like it. 

You run the same route every day; in all weathers. You know how it feels to run when the ground is hard or frozen over. You know how it feels to run in the rain, when the dirt track is slippery and the plot holes have become puddles and you return home mud-splattered and soaked. You must know every inch of it by now. 

On either side of the dirt track are fields. It was an odd thing at first when you moved to your new home on the outskirts of New York City - you had become so used to the constant stream of car horns and people being everywhere that you were nearly taken aback by the sheer silence on your first night in the house. Now you love the peace and quiet. Sometimes there are animals, which watch you go by, and sometimes they don’t even both looking up. Sometimes there are no animals at all. 

You can see the woods from the back of your house, the dark shape of them in the distance. In the evening, you sometimes come to your bedroom window to watch the sun go down behind the trees, with a cup of hot cocoa or tea in your hands. 

By the time you enter the woods you’re high on endorphins. It is the endorphins which keep you running when you would think that you no longer could. At the end of the track, the point where you turned off the road, you stop, exhausted, breathing hard; a coat of sweat gleaming over your skin. You need to remind yourself to stretch your muscles so you avoid pain later on.  

You check your watch and moments later, the elderly man with his beagle, Beatrice, make their appearance before breakfast. You started to expect their presence now on a daily basis - as he does for you, you imagine - at first only nodding your head as you you pass, but now you take your headphones out. When you see them you say, ‘Good morning!’ Beatrice gets a scratch behind her ears and he asks of your mom and how you’re settling in to your house. 

By the time you are back on your street, walking home, it is light and more people seem to be awake. You see some people leaving their homes either dressed for work or still in their bathrobes to fetch the morning paper or to see their beloved off to work. Some get into cars, others set off walking to catch the bus or subway. You don’t know their names and they don’t know yours. Maybe it’s better that way. You’re the illegitimate child of  _ the  _ Tony Stark - if people figured it out, your once peaceful life would change in the blink of an eye. 

When you get inside your house, you go for a shower. You stand under the stream of water for a long time, using the pink popsicle sponge that dangles off a hook by the shower tap and use your favourite body wash. You don’t spend long in front of the mirror or getting dressed. 

You skip breakfast, even though you must be hungry. You must feel hungry most of the time. You set off to college on the bus because you can’t afford to drive. You’re learning to be a counsellor for children, it’s a lifelong dream that you know you’re going to accomplish. Before you’re afternoon lecture you sit in the park with your store bought sandwich and feed the bread to the pigeons. You’re not even sure why you bothered to buy it. You read a book. You always have a book in your bag. You read while you’re waiting at the bus stop to go home after boring classes and on the bus so that no one speaks to you. ‘You’re not alone with a book.’ You say but you are. 

In the evenings you tend to stay in. You watch a lot of T.V. and Netflix; you’re slightly addicted to American Horror Story. On the television, you like to watch the talent shows. You used to sing, but your mom discouraged you. Now she’s dead and you toyed with the idea of entering one of the contests but you never have. 

You eat a bowl of cereal in front of the T.V. You like the, sugary sort they make for children, with cartoon characters on front of the box. Tonight’s delicacy is Lucky Charms. You know you eat a lot of cereal. You ought to eat more fruit and red meat even though you’ve toyed with the idea of becoming vegetarian. 

You go to bed early so that you can get up as soon as it is light and go running in the woods. Sometimes it takes you awhile to get to sleep, though, and sometimes you wake with a start in the middle of the night. You have bad dreams. Nightmares of your dad suddenly coming into your life. You want nothing to do with him. He doesn’t care about you and you don’t care about him. Apart from sending you yearly money for your birthday, he has made no attempt to contact you. Tony Stark. Your father. A man you never want to know. 

When you open your eyes, it will be dark. You will try to move your head but it will hurt too much. 

You don’t go out much. You’re not overly keen on hangovers and you like to be in control of your body. Alcohol is a numbing agent. You only drink it occasionally. On rare evenings out, with people you think of as friends, you go to bars where you are given phone numbers which you know you won’t call. 

It is a long time since your girlfriend left you but you have been slow to move on. She wasn’t right for you but you had had trouble seeing it. In your eyes, she was perfect. That was until you found out she had been cheating on you since your first week of officially being a couple. 

‘Faithful,’ she had said. Bullshit. 

But last night you went out and you weren’t with a friend. For the first time in years, with the thanks to modern technology and Tinder, you were out on a date. You went to a restaurant that you’d never been to before. Four hours previous, you had been in the shower. Two hours ago, half of your closet was streamed around your bedroom. An hour ago, you set off; and now, half an hour early, you sat at the bar, hands clenching your small white wine. 

When my hand gently touches your shoulder, your whole body jerks.

‘Sorry,’ I said, smiling. ‘Y/N?’

Your eyes scan my face, trying to place my profile picture with how I look in real life. Hopefully you’re not disappointed.   

‘Hi, yeah.’ You don’t know what to do with your hands. It’s cute. ‘Wanda?’ 

‘That’s me. I think our table is ready. Shall we?’ 

I offer you my arm and you take it. 

* * *

Waiting for us is an open bottle of  rosé. I pulled out your chair for you and you thanked me. My parent’s, while they were alive, raised myself and Pietro with manners. We know how to woo our ladies.

You silently pursue the menu and I watch you over the top of my own; you’ve plucked your eyebrows - you don’t do it often enough so I’m flattered, even if one is shorter than the other. You’ve dressed smartly but it looks like you’re here for a job interview and not a date. I was disappointed in you.  

While we were talking, you kept looking elsewhere, at the staff and at the other customers and at the door. I found it rude. You weren’t always paying attention to what I was saying. So I asked you a question.

‘How do you find the wine? Now that the staff can’t hear you.’

‘I like it.’ You said. 

I know it was a lie yet when I offer you another glass, you accepted it. 

‘No more after this, though.’ You muttered. 

When you drink, you don’t get up as soon as it is light and go running, and then you regret it.

When you open your eyes and find that you can barely move, you will have to remember what has happened. 

The wine has relaxed you and you tell me about how crappy you sleep. Sometimes, when you wake with a start before it is light, you wonder if you heard something; you think that maybe something you heard woke you up. Sometimes you listen, considering the possibility that there is someone else in the house. Sometimes you hear the garden gate banging and you think, ‘It’s only the gate.’ But you don’t get up to check or even turn on the light. Some nights you don’t hear a thing. 

You keep your front door locked, you’re almost obsessive over that - yet the back door is not always secured. You often leave the windows ajar too. How you haven’t been robbed yet is beyond you. 

Your mom would call you 'Lazy.’ 

You laugh once you finish your ramble, twirling a stand of your hair around thin fingers. You have a nervous laugh. It’s cute. 

When you open your eyes, you might feel sick. You will probably be thirsty. You will be cold. This is normal.

As I helped you into your coat, you talked about your mother who never liked your partners. You mention your father too, yet did not tell me his name. He makes your blood boil, as he does mine. I don’t tell you this.

Sometimes you think you are alone, but you are not. Far from it.

You told me how you felt numb when your mother died, and I understand. People experience pain in different ways. Some people feel pain right away like my brother; others it comes later, after the initial shock. I still can’t come to terms with my parents’ deaths. 

When you open your eyes and remember what has happened, you will wish that you had not been out drinking. You will want it to be dawn and to be running in the woods. You will wish that you never met me. 

I only drank water throughout our date. I should probably have told you that I brought the wine from home. I don’t drink much alcohol. I know you heard me on the phone to my brother in the taxi back to mine; despite us living in equal distances from the restaurant you had no quarrel with me telling the driver my address. You could barely keep your pretty eyes open, so I don’t think you really heard me speak. You tried to say something but your tongue wouldn’t work. You were asleep shortly after I ended the call, head resting on my shoulder. It was sweet. 

You stirred when we arrived, while I was getting you out. The cab driver didn’t even seem phased. You tried again to talk - you seemed concerned about having lost one of your shoes. When we got inside, you reacted to Pietro being his usual loud self.

‘Just my brother.’ I said. ‘Ignore him.’ 

‘She looks just like him.’ he said and thankfully you didn’t hear him.

‘I know.’ I replied. 

I carried you into the spare bedroom and put you down in the double bed, full dressed. Your mobile rang in your pocket and you seemed to be trying to lift your hand to take it out, to see who was calling you, but you couldn’t. You were fully at my mercy. I almost felt sorry for you. But you’re Stark’s flesh and blood. The only thing I felt towards you was hatred. I’ve turned your cell off now. You won’t be asleep for much longer and I don’t want the phone to be what wakes you. No. I have that specially planned out. 

When you opened your eyes, it will be dark. You will wonder where you are. You might hear a dog barking and might think you are home.

You will hear my voice, or at least the sound of my breathing or the gentle caress of my fingers through your hair. You will know that you’re not alone. 

And for the first time, you will wish that you were. 


	2. Chapter 2

It’s your left eye that opens first. For the briefest of seconds I catch sight of your iris - it’s is brown, just like your father’s - as you attempt to fight the drug running through your system, desperately trying to keep yourself awake. I know you know it’s futile but that doesn’t stop you trying. 

My strong, strong girl. You won’t be strong for much longer. Not with what I’m going to do to you. 

Your dry, cracking lips part, flashing pearly white teeth; it’s almost as if you’re trying to say something, a beg perhaps? Either that or you want to scream for help but there is no use. No one will hear you. You can and  _ will _ scream as loudly as you want, I will happily make you; until your throat turns red raw and your voice turned hoarse. Until you find you cannot scream anymore. I will keep pushing you.

You'll beg to be set free, cry and pray for someone to rescue you - you may even wish for  _ him _ to save you. But they won't. He won't. I’ve had this planned for months. Every second until it’s over, I have gone over with a fine toothed comb. You’re here to stay for as long as we want you here. Our new toy. No. You’re mine. 

The drug wins the fight once again and your eyelid droops shuts, and I watch as you seemingly fall back into unconsciousness once more. I’m a patient woman and I have a method prepared for waking you up, but you’re just too sweet while you‘re like this. Completely at my mercy. 

“He doesn't love you, darling girl.” I trail my fingers around your face, dancing over your flickering eyelids, down the soft skin of your nose and over your parched lips. “He never has, never will he get the chance to.”

My fingers now travel between the valley at your breasts. Maybe I'm hoping that this wakes you. Maybe I’m hoping that you will just fucking die and I can watch as your father crumples and burns. But I know he won't. Like I said, he doesn't love you. I'm sure he'll finally learn to care for you closer to the end, but by then it will be far too late.   


"The Stark name will end with you." 

It saddens me to tell your comatose body this, because even though you've only been here a few hours, I've grown used to your body lying in this bed. Perhaps you're nothing like your dad, you might even be a half decent person, but Stark needs to suffer for what he did, and you my sweet girl, are the tool I’m using against him.   


My hand finds its way back to your hair and I silently watch as my fingers vanish through your soft locks. I grip down tightly and pull, leaning forward to watch as your hair strains and yanks at your scalp. I want to hear you moan. You don't. You barely even stir.  


“Why did you drug her?” My brother asks. “Why did you even bother going out with her? She’s nothing special.”

My eyes are alight with excitement. I can hardly wait until you wake up.

“That’s where you’re wrong, Pietro.” I reply. “She is perfect.”

* * *

The next time you come back to consciousness, both your eyes open and it’s because I am very bored of waiting. You’ve ruined my plan because you refuse to wake up. I am not happy. Still, we can have plenty of fun I suppose.

Your head presses into the duck feather pillow and you take in an unnecessary loud breath. I can hear your thoughts - they’re so frantic, you’re already terrified and I’ve yet to lay my hand on you. You try to sit up, which I know is a big mistake, and I silently watch as your eyes widen and the blood drains from your face. If you need to be sick, so be it; it just better not get on me. 

Your cheeks bulge and your eyes are frantic with terror as you look around the room - either for a way out or for a bathroom, I can’t tell but seconds later, you flop over the side of the bed and empty the contents of your stomach loudly onto the floor. You retch, heaving up the watery puke until there’s nothing more to come up and you’re left there utterly spent, staring at the wooden floor. Too ashamed to even look at me. My hand comes into contact with your hair and you stiffen but don’t pull away. 

“Do you feel better?” I ask and you shake your head. I tut, disappointed in myself. “I knew I put too much in the bottle but...I just wanted to make sure…”

My hands grab your damp armpits and I pull you back onto the bed, a smile tugging at my lips when you try to pull away. You’re so weak. So afraid. I think I’m in love. 

“What...wh--where…” Your mind whirls to choose just one question from the hundreds that have formed in your brain. “Who are you?” 

“You do not remember me from our date last night?” I pout, sticking my bottom lip out while I pretend to be hurt. “I thought you were enjoying yourself.” 

You’re coming to now, I can tell with how the fire in your eyes is steadily growing larger. You’re becoming angry and I beg you to submit. 

_ Fight me. Punch me. Claw at my arms.  _ I want to show you just who you’re messing with. 

From the doorway, my brother clears his throat and he gets all your attention. 

“She’s finally awake then.” 

You frown. 

“Who --” 

Pietro, ever the discreet one, whizzes to your side in a second and his hand wraps around your throat; yanking you up to slam you now into the bed frame behind you. The anger has melted away like forgotten ice-cream on a hot day. I try not to be too gutted about that but I know you will grow angry again soon. This is probably the first time you’ve ever met anyone who is enhanced. Myself and my brother are your first ones. We’re popping your metaphorical cherry. I just hope I’m not too late to pop your real one. Regardless, I will take what I want. 

Your hands fly to clamp onto Pietro’s and you weakly try to pry him from your neck. Your mouth opens in a perfect O shape and I catch glimpse of a moist pink tongue hidden inside. 

“Stark.” My brother hisses. His grip tightens and you cry out. 

“I’m…” You’re openly crying now, tears streaming down your puffy cheeks. “T-that’s not...m-my name!” 

I can almost hear the bones in your neck cracking. Part of me cheers my brother on; I want him to strangle you to death, I want to see the life drain from your eyes until they gloss over and your body turns cold. Instead, I grip hold of his wrist and pry him from you. You suck air into your lungs frantically as your own hands shoot to your neck while you cough and try to get yourself away from us. 

“Please…” You’re still too numb from the drug to get far. Not that I would let you but it’s fun to see try. You dive head first into a coughing fit. It shakes your entire fragile body and all me and my brother do is watch. I can see that you’re terrified. I want more.

“Leave us, Pietro.” 

“Try and keep  _ her _ under control. I would rather not get a headache because your play thing can’t keep it down.” 

I never once take my eyes off you while Pietro speaks and I get the privilege of seeing your reaction. 

“I can’t make any promises brother.”

He leaves us just as quickly as he comes; vanishing from the room in nothing more than a blur and then your wide and shiny eyes turn to me. Your skin glistens with perspiration and for one whole minute all we do is stare at one another. You’re taking me in, trying to process the situation that you’ve found yourself in and wondering if you’ll be able to fight your way to freedom. Or run. I silently dare you to try both and see how far you get. You wouldn’t even make it to the door. 

Your mouth opens and then closes. Given the freedom to finally speak, you find that you don’t know what to say. 

I grow bored quickly, which you will find, in time; that I have little patience. You’re my very own stress reliever, a thing to vent my anger and frustrations out and until the day comes where I rid of you, I’m afraid my dear girl, that you are here to stay indefinitely. 

“I am in the mood to answer  _ one  _ question,” I tell you, my Sokovian accent weighing heavily on my words. My sudden decision to speak catches you off guard and it takes you by surprise. How could I forget? On our date, I masked my accent with an American one. This is the first time you will have heard it fall from my lips. “So choose wisely and do not waste my time.”

Your eyes flicker away from me and before you can so much as utter a single word, my hand catches you by your cheeks and I squeeze hard. Your lips pucker like a fish and you wince in pain.

“I did not say you could look away from me.” I glower down at you. “Speak.”

My fingers digging into the plush skin of your cheeks let up slightly and allow your mouth the freedom of mobility so you can talk. Your thoughts scream at me; I can hear them so loudly but there’s one word in particular that stands out and I grind my teeth together. I can feel my power surging through me. I was going to wait to show you this; wait until you were weak and begging for death, but you’ve convinced me to change my mind. 

Big mistake. 

Your head is thrown back and cracks against the wall while I stay exactly where I am; my familiar red tendrils wavering around my fingers. I watch them cling to your neck and hoist you further up the wall so your toes dangle inches from the bed. I make them squeeze your neck a little harder before I talk. 

“Tell me what you were thinking and I will let you down.” 

Your hands desperately claw at your own skin, frantic to locate the thing that has hoisted you into the air. I want you to struggle to breath but I need to hear you speak, so for now, I’ll settle with slowly grinding the bones in your neck against one another. “Talk. Before I lose all of my patience.”

I can feel your anger. It engulfs your other emotions and makes itself known. 

“I wanted to know if you were a freak just like your brother!” 

I smile broadly, showing my teeth, eyes alight. You flinch. 

“I knew there was fire in there somewhere.”

I drop you so suddenly that a small scream escapes your lips and you flop unceremoniously back onto the bed. Your decision to try and punch me is so sudden that it almost catches me off guard; I stop you mere inches from my nose and I watch the anger melt away into fear as you look at your own fist being held mid air by my power. 

“I wonder if your father will have the same look when he begs me for his life.” 

You’re staring straight into my eyes, barley even blinking. Before I continue speaking, I run my thumb over your bottom lip, pressing down slightly. It could almost come across as a romantic gesture, if the scenario was vastly different. “Do you think he will cry when Death perches next to him?” 

“That man is  _ not  _ my father.” You hiss the words out, the anger in you slowly bubbling back to the surface. “He doesn’t care for me and I certainly don’t care for him!” 

You struggle to free yourself, clenching and unclenching your first a few times like that will help. I silently get to my feet, sliding off the the bed in a fluid motion and then at the last second, I yank you to the edge of the bed with me. My fingers find their way to your hair once more and this time, when I pull; I’m gifted with your small cry of pain. I glance down at your lips. 

“That, my dear, is where you’re wrong.” I tell you. “He loves you.”

“H-how do you know?” 

I lean in to whisper in your ear, my own lips brushing at your skin and if I’m not mistaken, I catch the sound of your slight inhale of breath. I’ll remember that for later. 

“He told me.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Lol it's shit I know. But I finally got the courage to post it sooooo


End file.
